


Mugging the Monster

by romans



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-16
Updated: 2013-04-16
Packaged: 2017-12-08 15:42:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,085
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/763099
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/romans/pseuds/romans
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For the prompt: <i>Hannibal is the one who's kidnapped/hurt/threatened. </i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Mugging the Monster

His arms are tied to a cheap IKEA chair, which shifts dangerously as he twists his wrists. His hands feel like they're on fire, and they flop uselessly- the side effects of blood deprivation. They'll be in fine working order soon enough. Hannibal rolls his shoulders, feels the particle-board shudder around him, and takes in the situation. His head is pounding and there's a bloodstain on his jacket, which is a pity. Other than that - it would be laughably easy to break free, after years of carrying corpses and hacking through chest walls to get at the marrow and the meat inside. One good push would do it. They didn't even bother to tie his feet together.

The man who kidnapped him is bug-eyed and pale, and has a paunch. His arms are nicely muscled, though, and Hannibal eyes him speculatively. 

Jimmy Powell is sitting on the other side of what appears to be his kitchen table, holding a gun in one hand and a phone in the other. The table is littered with half-empty glasses of water. He's intently tapping out a message, one-handed, and it takes him some time to notice that Hannibal has come to. No self-preservation instincts whatsoever. Looking more closely, Hannibal decides that Powell must be on something. His forehead and neck are beaded with sweat, and his nose is running. His hands are shaking slightly. It's disgusting.

He jumps visibly when he notices that Hannibal is awake. The doctor allows himself a small moment of satisfaction; the ass has some instincts, it appears. His face is bland and shuttered, and he lets himself look slightly confused.

"What do you want?" Hannibal asks. His accent is a little thicker, his voice slightly slurred. 

Powell looks nonplussed for a moment. Interesting. Hannibal wonders how this ignoramus found the focus to murder four full-grown men and then dissected their faces with surgical precision. 

Powell picks up the gun in his shaking hands, resting it against the table to steady it. 

"How much do they know?" he asks. 

"They?" Hannibal repeats. 

"You," Powell says. "I saw you with them. I know you're FBI." He turns his head suddenly, eyes darting around into the corners of the otherwise empty room. The barrel of the gun wavers.

"Who are you looking for?" Hannibal asks. His voice is soothing, modulated to inspire trust. It is the voice he uses for his jumpiest patients. 

"I- I'm being followed," Powell says. "You-" he bites his lip, and a paroxyism of indecision crosses his face- "you tell them that I'm not crazy."

Hannibal almost smiles, and then remembers that he's meant to be a hostage. 

"You're not crazy," he says. "What do you see?" 

"Shadows," Powell says. He looks calmer, almost relieved. It could almost be a therapy session in Hannibal's office. "I see shadows everywhere- people sitting in cars, watching me, and behind dumpsters and electric poles and- I'm not crazy- they're following me. They always disappear when I look at them. And now they're real. They're out there in the world." 

"What do they want?" Hannibal asks. 

"To kill me!" Powell says. He remembers that he's holding a gun, and points it at Hannibal again. Hannibal frowns, considers how he would serve Powell's biceps. In teriyaki sauce, perhaps. Will did like Japanese cuisine. It's only a shame about the drugs.

"They want to kill you?" he asks. Hannibal stretches his legs out, spider-like, and licks the blood from the sides of his lips. Powell doesn't notice. 

"Yes," he says. He's sweating again. 

"Your mind tells you that they are real," Hannibal says. "And so they are. As real as this chair," he says, opening his hands to indicate his flimsy prison. 

"Do you know that every sound you hear is generated inside of your brain? If it made something up you would not know. It is very common. And you are just defending yourself." The mind is more powerful than most people imagine, and the methamphetamines aren't helping Powell any. 

Powell looks like he's near tears. "They're everywhere," he says. "They look out of so many faces and I have to get to them- see? I have to touch them. I have to see the monsters. _What do they know?_ "

"The FBI think that it's a doctor," Hannibal lies, and then he braces his feet under the chair. He will have to break free all in one go, and knock over the table at the same time. 

A car door shuts outside, quietly. Hannibal pauses.

"What was that?" Powell hisses. He turns his panicky eyes on Hannibal. He's looking for reassurance.

"It's your mind, Jim," he says soothingly. "I didn't hear anything. Your mind is replaying noises like a skipping record." 

If it's Will, Hannibal will have to play the damsel in distress. Eviscerating Powell would somewhat disrupt their relationship. 

"It's just you and I," he continues, a steady stream of soothing words to cover any sounds outside. "Have you ever heard voices?" 

He can hear footsteps crunching on the gravel outside, the familiar glide of an armed man trying to move silently. Two men, perhaps. 

"I heard my dad, once," Powell says. He's still holding the gun. 

"And?" Hannibal prompts.

"He died two years back," Powell says. "But I heard him downstairs, clear as day. He called my name."

"But he could not have been there," Hannibal prompts. "It was in your mind." 

Powell sighs, and then Jack kicks the door in. At the same time Hannibal kicks the table with all of his strength. It bashes into Powell and knocks him flat on the ground, and the force of the movement tips over Hannibal's chair. He grunts when he hits the floor, and then realizes that it will make him look even better. Jack is kneeling on Powell before the fool realizes what has happened, and Will is dropping to his knees beside Hannibal now, checking his head wound and then moving onto the ropes around his wrists.

"Are you all right?" Will asks. He doesn't seem to notice when his hand lingers on Hannibal's head for just a moment too long. Hannibal smiles up at Will, at his transparent concern for his doctor.

"I'm fine," he says. Will is going to fuss over him for weeks. Powell has quite neatly sprung a trap that should have taken months to set. Will's last walls are coming down, and Hannibal didn't have to lift a finger.

He won't, he decides, eat Powell. As a thank you.


End file.
